


The Autumn Dark

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is poisoned, leaving him and Hawke stranded in the woods to wait out the cold autumn night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Autumn Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the 3 year gap. Completely pointless hurt/comfort, hope y'all enjoy it

“Should’ve known there was something dirty about that job,” Hawke mutters. “I thought Athenril still liked me.”

“That is the risk of working with criminals,” Fenris says beside him. “You know what they say about honor and thieves. Although I must admit I’m rather glad your discretion in these matters is lacking, else I…would never have…met you. Nn—“

He staggers, his arm tightening around Hawke’s neck. Shit. Hawke helps him to the ground. “Fenris?”

Fenris’s hand splays on the carpet of dead leaves. “I think their arrows may have been poisoned.”

Damn it all. Hawke turns Fenris’s face towards him, peers into his eyes. His gaze is unfocused, his pupils shrunk down. “Fenris, how are you feeling?”

“Tired.” Fenris shakes his head. “Weak. I can’t—it’s difficult to think.”

Shit. Hawke was hoping that once he’d sewn Fenris’s wounds, they might be able to make it back through the woods to Kirkwall this evening. Now it seems that will not be the case. “All right, let’s find some shelter for the night.”

“For the night?”

“You’re…not looking so good. We’ll rest here til morning and head back to Kirkwall tomorrow, how’s that?”

Fenris nods sleepily.

Hawke helps him stand, and together they go on, turning west this time. The river should be nearby.

A few more minutes of stumbling and they come over a rise, and below them the river winds, wide and blue-black, ferrying brown leaves along on its whorled surface. Hawke scans and spots a fall of boulders to their left. He guides Fenris down the slope with care, one arm tight around his waist. Fenris is leaning into him more now. He’s getting weaker.

There’s a small cranny in the wall of boulders—not much, but it’s enough. Hawke is still afraid there might be pursuers, but there isn’t anything to be done about that. He ducks into the narrow space and helps Fenris kneel. “Let’s get your armor off so I can close your wounds.”

Fenris tries to help but cannot; his fingers are too clumsy, his arms devoid of strength. As Hawke undresses him he sees the growing fear, the discovery of helplessness. “It’s all right,” he murmurs. “It’s only the poison. It’ll be gone from you soon enough.”

Fenris wraps his arms around himself and shivers. The autumn will soon be drawing to an end, and the air is brisk. He’s down to his underclothes now, and his brown skin prickles with gooseflesh, the lyrium glowing faintly. Hawke goes over the wounds—the bloody holes the arrows made in his left arm and leg; the nasty gash in his lower back, and the one into the meat of his right thigh. Hard to defend daggers with a greatsword. Hawke fishes the needle and thread from his pack. There are bruises, too, a purple-blue mass over his ribs and a dozen smaller ones elsewhere. Nothing to be done about those. Hawke feels vaguely guilty—he himself is nearly uninjured, although that’s just the result of his fighting style. And if Fenris hadn’t been there, then Hawke would have been at much greater risk, and might even have died.

As it is, Fenris is the one who’s poisoned and bleeding. Hawke wants to kiss him, to tell him  _I’m sorry, this shouldn’t have happened, I love you and I hate that you’re hurt because of me._

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he throws his winter cloak over the ground and asks Fenris to lie face-down to expose the wounds in his back and thigh.

First the back wound. Hawke wets a cloth in the river first to wipe away the dried blood crusted there. Then he approximates the edges, guiding them gently together with finger and thumb, and presses the needle in.

Fenris flinches.

Fenris never flinches. Hawke freezes, alarmed. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I—it hardly hurts, I don’t know why, I just—I’m sorry. I’ll try to be still.”

But he still shivers under the silver tip of the needle. Hawke exhales. If he tries to sew the wound like this, he’ll just make a mess of it. He needs to calm Fenris somehow.

So he reaches out and rests a hand on Fenris’s back.

Cautiously. But he feels the tense muscle relax under his palm, and the trembling begins to recede. He starts to rub in slow circles, Fenris’s skin cool beneath him.

“Hawke—“

Hawke leans over. “What is it?”

“Nn—“ Fenris shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Is it all right if I try to sew that cut again?”

“Yes, I—I’m sorry, I’ll try not to move.”

Hawke wants to lean down and kiss his shoulder but doesn’t do that either. He can hear the fear in Fenris’s voice.  _It’s difficult to think._  The poison is familiar to Hawke, although he’s never used it himself. Slows the mind, apparently, makes it hard to apprehend what’s going on around you. Easy to be frightened in that situation, especially when you’re injured and stuck out in the forest with no help coming.

This time when the needle pierces Fenris’s skin the flinch is much milder, and the rest of the sewing goes without incident. Hawke’s fingers manipulate the wound-edges, drawing them together so the thread doesn’t pull on them so much. At last the long gash is closed, and Hawke ties the thread, snapping off the trailing end.

Next the one on Fenris’s thigh. It’s wide but not deep, and Hawke closes it with care. “You shouldn’t walk on this tomorrow, it might rip open again.” He smiles a little. “I suppose I could carry you to Kirkwall on my back. You aren’t very heavy.”

Fenris reaches down, finds Hawke’s hand, and squeezes it.

Hawke twines their fingers together. He doesn’t want to let go. But— “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve still got those holes in you where the archers got you. Could you turn on your side?”

Fenris obliges him, and Hawke gets to work. Smaller wounds, but they’re still oozing blood. One in the arm and one in the leg. There. “All right.” Hawke sits back on his heels. “We’re finished.”

Fenris struggles to sit up. “Thank you.”

Hawke helps him to dress again. Fenris did not bring a cloak—he professes not to mind the cold—so Hawke picks up his own and wraps it around Fenris’s shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

Fenris pulls his legs up to his chest, slowly. “I—it feels like there should be more pain.”

“It’s the poison. A silver lining, I suppose.”

“Yes. I…suppose.” He blinks, his gaze still unfocused. “Will they come after us?”

Hawke sighs. “Well, we left quite a trail. But it’s cloudy, they won’t be able to follow it after night falls. Which…should be very soon, actually.” Outside the entrance to their little cranny, the light is deep orange and dimming fast.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris mutters. “I should have been more careful. We could have returned to Kirkwall.”

“No.” Hawke grasps Fenris’s knee.  _“I_  should have been more careful. Stupid to think Athenril would throw a job my way out of the blue like that, especially now that I’ve got a bloody title.”

“Were you hurt?”

“A few bruises, that’s all.” A kick to the gut and a strike he blocked with his forearm. “Nothing bad. Listen—it’ll be freezing tonight, we’ll need a fire. Do you mind if I leave for a bit to go collect some wood?”

Fenris hesitates, but shakes his head.

“I’ll be back quick as I can, I promise.” Hawke rises.

He doesn’t stray far, and keeps his eyes and ears open. It’s getting dark earlier and earlier, and the sky purples as he makes his way through the forest, searching for dry wood. The cold wind cuts straight through his armor, and he shivers a little, hunching against it. It carries the smell of winter with it. Oh yes, it’ll be cold tonight. At last he has a good armful of firewood, and he clutches a bunch of kindling in his fist.

When he returns Fenris is sitting jammed up against the back of the cranny with his hands pressed to his face.

Hawke comes forward and kneels, putting his burden aside. “Fenris? What’s wrong?”

“You’re—“ Fenris looks up, and for a moment there’s a vulnerability there Hawke has rarely seen, not since Fenris came to him that night after Hadriana’s death. But it’s buried quickly. “I’m sorry. Nothing’s wrong, I just—there’s no reason for me to be so afraid. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

Hawke reaches out and strokes his face. “It’s all right. Once the poison fades you should feel normal again.”

Fenris takes Hawke’s hand and holds it against his cheek, just for a moment. Then he shivers, even in the cloak, and folds his arms around himself. “I don’t suppose you brought anything to eat?”

Hawke laughs. “You know me, I bring emergency rations everywhere I go.” He digs in his pack. The half-loaf of rosemary bread is a bit crushed, but he thinks it’ll still taste good, and he unwraps it from the brown paper and gives it to Fenris. “You can have it all, if I get hungry I’ll go hunt something later.”

Fenris watches him for a moment in the half-dark, and Hawke waves a hand. “I mean it. Trust me, I’ll survive.” He pats his stomach, the paunch that’s been growing above his beltline. Being rich is…difficult.

Fenris starts to eat. That’s a good sign. Hawke busies himself with the kindling, and in minutes he has a small but merry fire going, the heat magnified in the close cranny. It’s well and truly dark now, the only sources of light the fire and the faint glow of lyrium to his right.

“I am…tired,” Fenris mumbles, the orange light flickering over his face.

Hawke unhooks the bow and quiver from his pack, then pushes it across the leaves. “Might be a bit lumpy, but it’ll make a better pillow than a rock. I’m going to stay up a bit. I know they’re not coming after us, but I just want to be sure.”

Fenris lies down and curls up in the winter cloak. Hawke has seen him kill twenty darkspawn inside of a minute, but all balled up like this, he just looks so very  _small._

 _It’ll be fine,_  Hawke tells himself.  _Fenris is going to be all right. Everything will be fine._ He sits back against the wall, watching the flames curl and dance.

Something tugs at his leg.

He looks down. One of Fenris’s hands reaches out of the cloak, and it brushes the fabric of Hawke’s trousers. That’s no good. “You’re going to lose these to the cold if you do that,” Hawke murmurs, then twines Fenris’s fingers in his own. “There, that’s better.”

Fenris makes a soft noise of contentment. Hawke leans down and kisses his forehead. “Sleep well.”

In moments Fenris’s breathing has evened out, and the faint smear of worry on his face is gone. Hawke still holds his hand.

He wishes they could have this. Wishes it down to the bottom of his very soul. But Fenris can’t, so they can’t. That’s the simple truth of it. No fault to be had anywhere, that’s just the way it is. And it’s not as if things are  _bad—_ quite the opposite. He loves the time they spend with each other, and doesn’t think they’re any less close now than they would be if they were together.

He gazes down at their joined hands. It’s always been clear that Fenris wants this too, only he can’t do it, because of where he came from and what was done to him. That’s what Hawke rails against, uselessly, against the black ghosts of Fenris’s past—spectres that always hover in the shadows, that will not be dragged into the light.

But they’ve weakened since Fenris came to Kirkwall. He’s changed so much,  _so_  much.

Maybe one day. Maybe. Until then, this is just fine. More than that. It’s more than Hawke ever could have hoped for.

His stomach growls. He sighs to himself, lets go of Fenris’s hand, tucks it back under the cloak. Time to go hunting. They’ll need food for the morning, anyway. He takes up his bow and quiver.

The night is indeed quite dark, the moon and stars shrouded behind a thick, sluggish current of clouds. Hawke clambers up the rise, away from the firelight, to let his eyes adjust. It takes some minutes, but shapes at last begin to resolve in his vision—boulders, the thick trunks of maples and oaks, the low arcs of ferns. He plucks an arrow from his quiver and nocks it, waiting, standing perfectly still. He expects to wait a long time.

And he does. The cold wind cuts through his armor, and he put his gloves back on before leaving but his fingers still grow numb, and he must jam his hands into his armpits, alternating one and then the other so he can still hold his bow. He scans the forest before him, listening, picking out the horned owls, the mockingbirds, the fluting call of the whip-poor-wills. In the distance he thinks he hears the rasping squawk of a night-heron, perhaps hunting for frogs in the wetlands east of here. There is movement, of course, with the wind weaving through the forest—the swaying of the ferns, fluttering leaves, both those still clinging to the spindly branches and those chased across the ground in a series of gentle sighs. He studies it, memorizes it. It’s not the right kind of movement.

There.

A low bustle, fat and trundling. Twenty yards away. With infinite patience Hawke raises his bow, slowly, slowly. No startle, no sudden flight. Good. He draws the bowstring back, the fletching of the arrow pressed tight against his beard.

And fires.

The furry shape jerks. Hawke sprints forward in case the hit wasn’t fatal, keeping his eyes on it—wouldn’t do to lose it in the dark. But it doesn’t move. When he arrives he finds his arrow took it through the skull.

He pulls out the arrow—good to save those—and picks up the raccoon by the tail, making his way back through the dark.

The fire must still be going strong, its light seeping through the opening of their small cranny and glimmering on the turbulent surface of the river. Hawke clambers down the slope and slips between the boulders.

To find Fenris awake, pressed once more against the stone wall as if trying to sink straight through it. On Hawke’s arrival his eyes widen, and he stands, limps forward with the winter cloak dragging behind him on the leaves, reaches out with both hands—grasps the front of Hawke’s armor with trembling fingers. “When—when I woke you were gone—“

“I was hunting.” Hawke lifts his prize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be gone so long—“

“Hunting. Yes, you…you had told me that. I forgot.” Fenris takes a slow step back, releasing Hawke, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I was worried, and there was no reason. None at all.”

Hawke hesitates. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. I am fine.” He waves a hand, heading for the fire at the back of the cranny. “As I said, there was no reason for my concern.”

Hawke follows him and lays the raccoon down at the base of the wall. “What woke you?”

“A bad dream. It was…more vivid than I am accustomed to. But it was only a dream.”

Hawke was afraid of that. A side effect of the kind of substance he’s been poisoned with. “Is that cloak warm enough?”

“Yes, actually. You should share it, since I lacked the foresight to bring my own.” Fenris sits again by the fire.

“I’m enormous, I’d take up the entire thing.” He grins. “Anyway, I’m plenty used to sleeping in the cold. I went on more than one ill-advised camping trip back when I still lived in Ferelden. More than five, if we’re being honest.”

Fenris stares into the fire for a moment. Then, in a quiet voice: “Hawke, will you please share the cloak with me?”

Shit. How could he have missed it? Fenris never asks for what he needs, so Hawke’s learned to notice when there’s something he’s not saying, something catching at him. But not this time, apparently. Damn it all. Hawke begins unbuckling his armor. “Of course. Of course I will.”

By the time he’s got it all off Fenris has already lain down with his head on the pack. Hawke goes to lie beside him, then stops. “Er. I’m going to be freezing.”

“I do not mind.”

So Hawke slips under the cloak, and Fenris wriggles back, fitting their bodies together without hesitation. Hawke wraps an arm around him and holds him close.

Just as it was last time, in those brief couple of hours before Fenris left, when Hawke thought somehow, against all odds, that they  _could_  be together as both of them wanted, and that they would be for months, or years, that nothing would ever come between them again. That Fenris would visit every other night for supper, that they would fall asleep in the same bed and the next morning wake slowly, gazing into each other’s eyes—or more likely Hawke would want to sleep in and Fenris would drag him downstairs by the ankles with an arch  _we’re going to be late, Hawke, it is time for you to rouse yourself,_ and Bodahn would be whistling away in the kitchens, making breakfast for two _._  All there, stretched out in front of him, as he lay with Fenris’s back expanding softly against his chest.

Hawke knows that this is different, here in the late autumn dark with only the hard ground beneath them. But he loves Fenris no less now than he did in that moment, and he hopes Fenris knows that. Hopes dearly.

The cold is close on his face, but Fenris is warm. Hawke drops off before very long.

——

Something’s wrong.

Hawke squints. Still night, the fire lower, the orange light muted on the opposite wall. Something’s wrong. What’s wrong? He doesn’t hear any intruders. Doesn’t feel any pain. And Fenris is still here, asleep—

—tense as bowstring, curled up and shaking. Another nightmare. Shit. “Fenris.” Hawke sits up— _cold,_ cold, the cloak falling away—and grasps Fenris’s shoulder. “It’s only a dream. Fenris?” Shakes him gently, then harder, seeing how drawn his face is, in terror or something worse— “Fenris!”

His eyes snap open.

Hawke releases him, just in case. “You were having a nightmare.”

Fenris blinks, confused.

Then he sits up and wraps his arms around Hawke, squeezing him so hard Hawke is vaguely afraid one or two of his ribs are going to give. “It’s all right,” he manages. “You’re safe. Nothing’s happened.”

Fenris doesn’t speak, but he relaxes by degrees, until Hawke’s ribs aren’t being crushed anymore and they’re just sitting there holding each other in the freezing air, the cloak pooled around them, the fire flickering weakly at their side.

Hawke strokes Fenris’s hair. “Are you all right?”

Fenris nods into his chest.

“Can I stoke the fire? It’s getting rather low and it is very cold out here.”

Another nod. Then a moment of stillness before Fenris extracts himself, dragging the cloak over his shoulders again.

Hawke builds the fire up until it’s crackling away. Then he lies down again, and Fenris crawls on top of him, and they’re both asleep again very soon.

——

When he wakes next it’s morning.

Fenris is still asleep on his chest, so light Hawke hardly notices. He slides out with as much stealth as he can muster— _cold,_ why does it have to be so bloody cold, the winter’s not even here yet—and prods at the fire again. Then he goes to find some sticks.

He skins and cleans the raccoon corpse, which is chilly but not frozen, having been left near the fire. Then he impales it on his makeshift spit and leaves it to roast. Fenris is sleeping peacefully, no terror on his face anymore. The sight sets Hawke’s heart at ease.

He goes out and refills their waterskins, and turns the raccoon a couple of times while he waits. Nothing to season it with, shame, but it might even be tasty. Not a flesh often consumed in Kirkwall, but he ate it plenty enough in Lothering. His mother liked to stew it with parsnips and onions.

“Good morning.”

Hawke turns. “Oh! Morning.”

Fenris is sitting up, rubbing his eyes, still huddled inside the cloak. “You’ve already started on breakfast, I see.”

“I have. Shouldn’t be long now.” He leans back against the stone wall. “How are you feeling?”

Fenris heaves a long sigh. “Like a complete fool. Please allow me to apologize for my behavior last night.”

Hawke stares for a moment. “Fenris—there’s nothing to apologize for!”

“There isn’t? I begged you to sleep beside me. That seems rather cruel.”

“It  _wasn’t._  Fenris, you were poisoned and afraid. I was helping. I know that’s all there is to it,” he says. “You weren’t being cruel, I promise. Are you any better this morning?”

Fenris grimaces. “I can feel pain again, which I assume is a good sign, regardless of my personal feelings on the matter.”

Hawke grins. “That is a good sign. And you’re thinking clearly? Your strength’s back?”

Fenris lifts a hand and balls it into a fist. “I believe so.”

“Good! Then I can help ferry you back to Kirkwall as soon as we’ve eaten our fill of this poor blighter.” He gives the spit another turn.

They lapse into a silence, broken only by the crackle of flames and the occasional hiss as a drop of grease falls into the fire. But there’s a tension there that has yet to unwind, one Hawke sees in the way Fenris frowns at the burning logs. Well, he certainly isn’t going to be the one to say anything, so it’s up to Hawke. “What’s wrong?”

Fenris looks up. “Hm? Nothing is wrong.”

“That’s rubbish. You’ve got a look on your face.”

“I have no look on my face.”

“Fenris, you  _absolutely_  have a look on your face. Please, just talk to me.”

Fenris exhales, annoyed. “I was only thinking that…you deserve better than this.”

That pulls Hawke up short. “I—what?”

“I know you wish to be with me, even while I continue to hold you at arm’s length. And yet you are never anything but selfless and kind to me. Meanwhile, what do I give you in return? Rejection? False hope?”

“Fenris—“ Hawke rises, comes over, sits beside him. “It’s  _you._  I get to spend time with you. I love spending time with you, it doesn’t matter what we’re doing. And if you don’t want to be with me, for whatever reason, then we shouldn’t do that, because you’d be forcing yourself into it for my sake. And all I want is for you to be happy, really.”

Fenris gazes back at him for a moment, with those  _stunning_  green eyes, and looks utterly lost for words.

Then he smiles a little. “Thank you for staying with me last night.”

Hawke shrugs. “There’s no need to—“

Fenris takes his face in both hands, gently, and kisses him on the mouth.

Not the sort of kiss that changes anything—not what lies between them, at least. It might change things for Fenris. Hawke leans into him and holds his waist, flooded with love. How could it be possible, for him to love one man this much?

Then Fenris sits back. “I also enjoy spending time with you. Although in the future perhaps we could endeavor to do so somewhere not quite as cold.”

Hawke shivers, rubbing his arms. “That is an excellent proposal.”

An hour later and they’re heading downriver towards Kirkwall. In one hand Fenris carries a walking stick, to ease the passage on his injured leg. His other hand is held in Hawke’s. They let go of each other at the city gates—Hawke has enemies, and it’s best not to give them a new target they might use to get to him. He walks Fenris to the mansion, just to make sure none of the blasted nobles bowl him over in the streets, and stops at his door. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I look forward to it.” Fenris turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open. When he goes inside he’s still smiling.


End file.
